The three of them, Lachlan, Zubair, and Psycho, moved deeper into the chaos without flinching.
The Sanctuary tried to reassert itself—alarms started and cut off, panels flashed directives no one followed, doors attempted to seal and then reopened because the people meant to maintain them were already coughing blood.
But it was clear to everyone that the system was flailing, and the flailing created new pockets of trapped bodies, new pressure points.
Psycho, on the other hand, looked delighted.
He drifted toward a cluster of guards trying to hold an intersection, rifles up, faces pale. They weren't sick yet—at least not visibly. That made them dangerous because they still believed in authority.
"Stop!" one shouted. "You're not authorized—"
Psycho moved before the sentence finished.
Frost erupted outward, not creeping, not decorative.
